Don yer tam and hae a wee dram

Every golfer worth his green fee yearns to some day return to the birthplace of golf to play a round on the course that is synonymous with the game’s heritage — the Old Course at St. Andrews. This dream wouldn’t be complete without employing a caddie — one of those crusty old eccentric wags we read about in books like Golf in the Kingdom.

The burr in the saddle of this dream however, is the burr in the Scottish dialect. Although I was totally insensitive to my mother’s strong Scottish accent, my friends needed me to translate every time she yelled at them to take their shoes off when they entered our house. How can Ernie from Hackensack expect to understand the droll observations of a true Scot when he dinna ken the brogue? If you get my drift.

Not understanding your Scottish caddie can ruin the experience to such a degree that the Old Course has recently started renting out translators to accompany the overseas visitor, thus ensuring that not a whit of wry Scottish wit is lost to the visiting golfer. Recently, I visited St. Andrews to assess the effectiveness of the new system.

I was assigned a rather weather-beaten decrepitude named Sandy MacPherson, who would carry my bag that day, and Reginald Smithers, an impeccably turned out gentleman, who would be my interpreter.

I started things off by greeting my caddie, asking after his health. “A’m s’knackered ah couldny walk the lengthy masel,” Sandy responded. “A’ve hud the skoots fur mair than a week noo,” he added.

I turned in desperation to Smithers. “Mr. MacPherson says he is decidedly inebriated, apparently the only means he can contrive to cure a lower abdominal affliction he has suffered from lately.” I thanked him and we walked to the first tee.

I was the lone non-Scot in the foursome, and we quickly set a match up for a few pounds. One of the locals in the foursome took a quick look at Sandy and pronounced, “Ye’re awfy peely-wally lookin tae day,” to which Sandy responded, “Ah’ve bin feelin’ a bit hingy this weather. We’ve nae braw weather in a fortnight”

Smithers was ready: “Mr. Duncan has made note of Mr. Jock’s lack of color; Mr. MacPherson has advised him of recent ailments and decries the lack of a clement climate.”

Sandy turned to the golfers after a quick glance at the sky. “Ur ye gauny git a move on? It’s baltic an gauny bucket doon!”

Smithers didn’t wait for my puzzled prompt. “Mr. MacPherson has urged us to speed the pace of play, due to the chill and imminent precipitation, in which case Mr. MacIntosh, acknowledging the inclemency of the weather, has suggested taking refuge in Old Tom Morris’s establishment. Mr. Duncan has expressed his disappointment with the frequency of wet weather.”

At one point in the match, I asked Duncan if he would like to try my driver. “Yon club’s nay use,” Sandy interjected, “Duncan’s corrie-fisted!”

“D’ye think he came up the Clyde oan a bike?” MacIntosh shot back.

“Wance more an’ yer pan’s wasted ah’m tellin’ ye!” Sandy retorted.

“Ah’ve no come across sumpy as dunnert as this boggin bead-rattler, y’arse bandit,” Duncan confided to me under his breath as we walked down the fairway. I couldn’t wait.

Smithers took a large breath. “Mr. MacPherson is of the opinion that your offer to Mr. Duncan will come to naught due to the fact that he is left-handed. Mr. MacIntosh then defended your offer, exhorting your intelligence. Mr. MacPherson retaliated by threatening Mr. MacIntosh’s visage with some form of violence. Mr. Duncan then expressed that it is his conviction that Mr. MacPherson is an odiferous member of the Catholic faith who leads an alternative lifestyle.”

The match came down to a slithering snake of a putt on the 18th, which I made to win for our side. Sandy was ecstatic, being of the belief that this would finally put MacIntosh in his place, no doubt.

“Ye fair put the hems oan that big gell’s blouse, and nae messin’,” he chortled as we left the green. I turned to Smithers. “You won, sir,” he sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward. Then winking and smiling he added, “But wiznae that pure dullion?”